The Wax Conspiracy

Commission of The Rusty Coalescence

Me in a kaftan working the capstan, whistle to the capta'n, "That man, with a hook hand, is a can-do man." A man with a plan, if not two hands, and a handy man at that. That that being the that that packs the rats and racks the shacks and shingles the crew o'er do a jingle to. To sing a song of sixpence, a penance of sense and dissonance putting forth dreams of hence.

Here in the now, in the presence of the present tense, part and parcel of the past participle. Touching tales to tell each other to. Rather the rough dart of a raft in half-hearted departedness. A mess at best to call all is but more for taking the time to stop and smell the pilchards.

rusty are these trunks
disconnected are the trunks

Deep and luscious, a brush of this and the senses sends it this. Clearly where the air is rare, the hair is but a wispy flair. You there, me here, and we all care to wallow in our own despair of disrepair. But do you really care to bear the bare stare of the unaware?

Long out to sea, working the fee and dreaming of thee. Of when and where, oh why the skies of dreaming pies and strawberry eyes.


Ethan Switch

Written on Monday, 2 November 2009

The Wax Conspiracy

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